


Treble

by melospiza



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-25
Updated: 2010-01-25
Packaged: 2018-02-03 22:23:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1758459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melospiza/pseuds/melospiza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes snaps his eyes open to ascertain whether or not Watson minds.  He doesn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Treble

**TITLE:** Treble  
 **SERIES:** Sherlock Holmes  
 **RATING:** M  
 **GENRE:** Het/Slash  
 **PAIRING/S:** Holmes/Watson/Mary  
 **SNIPPET:** _Holmes snaps his eyes open to ascertain whether or not Watson minds. He doesn't._  
 **A/N:** When was the last time I was this prolific? How about... never? The prompt at [](http://sherlockkink.livejournal.com/profile)[**sherlockkink**](http://sherlockkink.livejournal.com/) was, "I need me some Mary/Watson/Holmes. Just, like-- kissing each other, all of them, indiscriminately, mapping out all that gorgeous skin. Possibly in a coach. Or in a big, big bed. And not Watson mediating, necessarily, because I have a thing about Holmes/Mary."

 

 

  
How had this begun? How on Earth had Sherlock Holmes managed to find himself in one of the more interesting predicaments of his lifetime, wound up in a tangle with his dear friend and his dear friend's wife?

When Watson had wed, despite his eventual admittance to Mary of the true nature of his relationship with Sherlock Holmes, Holmes had thought that the end of their dalliances. And, for a time, he'd been right. But now here they were, utterly unexpected, and somehow the couple's attempt to cheer him from one of his black moods had concluded with the three of them in his bed, in a rather deplorable state of undress.

The bed is too narrow for the three of them. No one seems to mind. Holmes finds reassurance in Watson's kiss, the familiar scrape and bristle of his moustache causing an ache of longing to settle in Holmes's chest and reminding him of when the doctor was wholly his. But the shape of Mary's curves, defined by the silk of her corset, is wholly new territory. She exhales a little gasp when his palm cups her breast, and Holmes snaps his eyes open to ascertain whether or not Watson minds.

He doesn't.

The hard lines of Watson's body press warm and familiar against Holmes's back, and Mary is before him, blushing prettily as her stockinged legs brush against Holmes's trousers. He is more fascinated with her than he has been with any woman for quite some time, and perhaps it is because she is Watson's; he studies the way the candlelight dances in her disheveled hair and flickers across her features, the heave of her breasts against her corset, the way her pupils dilate every time she looks at him, even as she gropes for Watson's hand across his shoulder. She studies him just as thoroughly with her soft hands, her fingertips following every ridge of musculature upon his bare torso and lingering upon the minute humps of scar tissue upon his forearm. Holmes traces the tips of his fingers along the outside of her shapely thigh, and he notes the exact moment when her breath begins to quicken. Watson drags his teeth along Holmes's shoulder.

He is inundated with their scent; Mary's perfume, Watson's tobacco, his own. Holmes presses his lips to Mary's and knows immediately that Watson has taught her how to kiss, for the soft sweetness of her mouth is foreign but the cadence of her motions is familiar; he predicts the flick of her tongue and nips at it, making her draw back with a gasp.

“Mr. Holmes!” she whispers. He chuckles. Watson bites his shoulder in earnest this time, and Holmes melts back against him with a hungry little groan. He turns his head and Watson kisses him again, stealing Mary's taste from his lips. He hears the rustle of her movements and silently applauds her bravery when her fingertips begin to creep across his spread thighs. He can hear the quickness of her breath and realizes it must excite her to see them locked together like this, his throat vulnerably exposed as Watson savages his mouth with uncommon vigor. Holmes deliberately licks Watson's mouth for her benefit, and is rewarded when he glances her way and sees she's biting her lip.

They unite in a pile of limbs, sweat and silk, lace and tweed. Watson bumps his head against the wall, and Mary giggles fetchingly. Holmes's hand maps the planes of Watson's broad back and hedges his knee between Mary's, her face is hot against his shoulder as she squirms against his leg. Her breath pants into his right ear, Watson's into his left, and Holmes can feel himself coming undone between them.

Then Watson's hand skims across his stomach and down the front of his trousers, and for a moment Holmes can't breathe at all. Mary dares a single glance before pressing her face against his shoulder, her arms wrapped tightly around him, her hips moving against his thigh in minute undulations. Watson's eyes glitter in the candlelight as Holmes gives him a delirious look, the doctor's mouth drawn into a smirk as his palm gives a particular twist that makes Holmes draw in a loud, ragged breath.

“Watson-”

“Shh.”

Mary's nails are digging into his side as Holmes moves beneath her, his body whipcord-tight, his hips ticking urgently toward the hard grasp of Watson's hand. He makes vague noises in the back of his throat and Mary's hand begins to stroke across his chest, restless rather than soothing, the twirl of her fingertip around his nipple making him grasp at Watson in vague alarm.

Watson offers no clemency, continuing to stroke him.

Holmes fists his hand against the small of Mary's back and keeps moving, what little control he'd previously possessed slipping away by degrees. He can hear the pleading sounds rising from his throat and is helpless to stop them. The feathery soft kisses that she brushes to his neck are almost as decimating as the heat of Watson's palm, and in another moment he is overcome, writhing, arching up against the press of their bodies, gasping out epithets a lady like Mary should not have to hear.

When he subsides, Mary relaxes also, and Watson wipes the mess on his palm across Holmes's stomach. Holmes stares dazedly up at the cracks in the ceiling, his breath trembling across his parted lips.

“Do you feel better now?” asks Watson.

Holmes makes a wheezy sound, then hoarsely croaks, “Yes.”

Mary pushes herself into a seated position, giving him a sweetly sheepish smile as she unwinds her legs from his. Watson sits up also, smiling at her, and then at Holmes, who remains prone on the bed.

“Then I suppose our work here is done,” he says. Holmes blinks mutely at the ceiling.

When they climb out of the bed, the cold night air settles over him like a blanket. Mary trips on something and giggles again, Holmes does not turn his head to ascertain what. There is a loud rustling of cloth as she gathers up her dress, and then the door squeaks open and they are gone.

Holmes closes his eyes, draws a deep breath, exhales it.

He will give them approximately ten minutes. Then he's going to join them in Watson's bed.  



End file.
